The Dog That Didn’t Turn Up

When we plan things, we imagine how they will turn out.

I didn’t have much of a plan for this adventure beyond: set off from Land’s End, head east, then head north, and see what happens. But I did imagine how my story might pan out.

In the film version of my adventure, I’d be played by Helen McCrory (Aunt Poll in Peaky Blinders); I’d be climbing mountains so that the camera could fly round me on mountaintops as I sink to my knees and yell ‘Why?! Why am I doing this?!’

And on another mountain (probably in Scotland) I’d be like Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music, arms open, twirling , singing, because I was deliriously happy for some reason or other.

Helen McCrory as me would reach John O’Groats looking fit and fabulous, with my shoes almost falling apart, there would be a crowd of people waiting to greet me, cheering as I walk round the cliff and see them there, tears streaming down my face, people playing tunes, dancing singing, some incredible revelation happens, my life turns round, demons faced and conquered, sun shining, ruddy-faced fishermen waving at me…

…people leaving the cinema feeling that they have been on the journey with me, and determining to read the book. (Not that I’d spent much time thinking about the film version… Chris Prat or Tom Hardy would play The Lovely John..)

In another world, where I’d have got the funding to create a musical snapshot on my crazy pilgrimge, I might have booked more B&Bs, I might have been more certain about my route, and known exactly when and where I would be.

But I would have missed out on so much excitement, thrills, worries, and entering into the unknown.

In my imagined version of the journey, I would arrange to meet musicians en route, literally. They would walk to some pre-arranged crossroads, and we would spend an hour or two enjoying sharing tunes and a picnic, then we would both hug and go our separate ways.

In my imaginary journey, there was a little dog that started walking along beside me, and even though I tried my best to get rid of it, it just kept following me, and we ended up best of friends and almost inseparable. I was probably going to call the dog Groaty, or something like that. Boots maybe. But the dog would be well-behaved and devoted.

In my imaginary journey, I turn up at the John O’Groats hotel and spend the £50 note that I have kept in my hat (actual, not imaginary) on a drink, a meal or a room for the night. People cheer and pat me on the back.

In fairness, some people had said they would walk with me for a while, an hour, a day a weekend, but weather, commitments and time never quite coincided.

The dog didn’t turn up. But Naked Actionman did.

The hotel at John O’Groats has been turned into self-catering flats. So I saved my money.

I was looking forward to walking the entire length of the Pennine Way, the Great Glen Way and the West Highland Way.

Didn’t do any of them in their entirety.

I even decided to treat myself to the West Highland railway journey, and have a day climbing Ben Nevis.

Rain and fog put a stop to all that milarkey. Who wants to sit on a train for five hours and see nothing but fog? Not I. Who wants to climb uphill for five hours in thick rain clouds? Nah.

There were a lot of things I didn’t do, and it doesn’t matter in the slightest. I met the most amazing people, I have seen some incredible places, heard wonderful music, i have been constantly reassured that people are kind, friendly, good-natured, we smile, we laugh, we are interested and interesting. Everyone has a tale to tell, and everyone loves to hear a tale well told.

People aren’t obsessed with politics, they don’t talk about Brexit; there is much more to this world of ours, this tiny country of mine, than the media would ever admit to.

Life is full of magic, amazing co-incidences, places so delicious they make you want to cry.

These things can’t be imagined, they can’t be captured and recreated in a film. Helen McCrory, marvelous actress that she is, would never be able to show the gradual realisation that my knees aren’t hurting anymore.

Or how good it felt to climb my first long hill without thinking I was going to collapse. Or what it felt to be knocking on someone’s door who I’d never met before, because they had heard about my adventure and invited me to stay and hear them play music.

Or how, when I was travelling through Scotland, I didn’t feel like some Amazonian adventurer, I felt like Jimmy Crankie.

I felt like Jimmy Crankie because I was loving every minute, smiling at the rain, the mists, stealthcamping in harbours, beaches, lochs and lakesides, heading North, on my way to John O’Groats. I even went to visit Glenmorangie whiskey distillery, something I’ve always wanted to do.

Glenmorangie distillery

Naked Actionman posing like a pro

Could this be the best bar in the world?

If anyone is wondering what to buy me for Christmas – glenmorangie please x

I didn’t stop smiling when I got to John O’Groats, even though we’d driven all day in thick fog, and you couldn’t see a thing when we got there.

We did the obligatory photos, and were similarly underwhelmed by John O’Groats as we were by Land’s End.

The destination isn’t the adventure. It never was.

There is a phrase that often came into my head during the adventure: ‘The map isn’t the territory’. It was a phrase that was often trotted out during NLP training, and this summer, I totally understood it. It’s 874 miles to Land’s End, you can plot the route on a map, but the journey is so much more than a line on a map.

Somewhere behind Naked Actionman, there’s Orkney

It’s a bleak, bleak place is John O’Groats.

Pulling out all the stops for the tourists.

Here we are, Jimmy Crankie and the Lovely John at J O’G

Two Months earlier… equally bleak, but sunnier, 874 miles away….

Well Folks, it’s been a blast. But it’s not the end of the blast. No siree. I’ve got a hundred tunes and songs and stories to turn into something. Watch this space, give me a week or two to get used to being back in my homelands, then see what I start cooking.

In the meantime, I’ve got to get used to not being an adventurer, I’ve got to decide where I’m living and I’ve got to get me a job.

Eek.

Rain, rain, lovely rain…

After the excitement of the Devil’s Pulpit, we headed north to Loch Lomond.

It was way beyond teatime (that’s dinner time to you southerners), and we were hungry, so set up camp at the first place we saw, which happened to be the bottom end of Loch Lomond at a place called Duck Bay.

It seemed an appropriate place to teach the Lovely John a tune called Duck River, so that’s what we did until rain stopped play.

The rain didn’t stop for days. Days and days of rain, cloud and fog.

Loch Lomond – view from the van. Still raining. Still beautiful

I’m sure the highlands were spectacular, if only we could have seen them…

We’d made plans as part of my ‘holiday’ section of the adventure, to head to Fort William and climb Ben Nevis. We’d climbed Scarfell Pike a couple of years ago in thick mist and a howling gale, and last year we did Snowden, and the clouds descended as we got to the top.

The top of Snowden is a funny place – there’s a cafe and a train station, and I was desperate to have a wee as I neared the top, so decided I would hold out for the toilets in the cafe. The cafe, of course, was closed, so as soon as we’d had the obligatory photo at the summit, I found a little crevice to crouch in, not that I needed one because it was thick fog. Until I started peeing. Then miraculously the fog lifted, a train-load of people appeared from nowhere, and I was crouched with my knickers round my ankles peeing like a horse saying ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t stop. Watch your step, it’s flowing over the path.’

But I digress – being an expert on mountaintops where you can’t see anything, we decided to give Ben Nevis a miss, as you could barely see one end of the street from the other in Fort William, so I wasn’t expecting a view from the mountains, especially as there weren’t any to be seen. But next time I’ll conquer Ben Nevis. Here’s a helpful site that will get me there: https://bennevis.co.uk/

There were a lot of hiker types in Fort William, unsurprisingly as it’s where you set off for BN and other mountains, and two of the paths I had planned to walk on (The Great Glen Way and The West Highland Way) began and ended in the town.

Astute readers may have noticed the change in tense there from ‘I’ll be walking on’ to ‘I had planned to walk on’.

Yes, it’s true. I am no longer going to walk through Scotland to John O’Groats.

Neither am I collecting tunes and meeting musicians in Scotland.

And I’m not chickening out; I have realised that Scotland is a vast and glorious country that needs a bit of research in order to do it justice. And hell yes, I want to walk the Great Glen Way ad the West Highland Way, but I want to do it when I’m feeling fresh and ready for it and even though I’m time rich right now, I’m cash poor, so I want to do my research, save up, and do it in B&B style, not hiking tent cheap. A girl has certain standards, you know.

I know that it takes about twenty minutes to drive what would take me a day to walk, so I figured that I could enjoy the holiday, still get to John O’Groats, but in The Stealth Campervan rather than on foot, and still have the most wonderful adventure.

And still it rained…

Loch Ness – we had our own little beach and campfire, and the rain didn’t dampen our spirits

No – that wasn’t Nessie, it was the Loch Ness pleasure boat. We waved, but I think the red monster on the outside ate all the passengers

This is perhaps the tackiest place in all of Scotland…Nessieland. Even Naked Actionman was unimpressed.

The Loch Ness camping was wonderful – we had a tiny beach to ourselves, and wood to make a fire and a big umbrella so we were warm and dry, and we just sat under that big old umbrella, stoking up the fire, watching the rain clouds rolling in, drinking whiskey and playing music.

Tomorrow – I’m doing it – I’m going to tell you about reaching John O’Groats, seeing seals, stealthcamping in harbours and beaches in mists so thick that we couldn’t see the castle on the beach, and how much I love Scotland.

But for now, I’m writing this part of the blog at my mother’s, and I hear the kettle going on again…

Glasgow And Grown-up Grace

My modus operandi with the Stealth Campervan is to look at google maps and work out where we’re heading then find somewhere that looks interesting on the way and stop there for a while.

I can’t do this when I’m walking.

On foot, I find a route, preferably a well-maintained footpath, and by well-maintained, I mean well-signposted, a clear path or bridlepath or cycle route, and heading North. On a day walk, or walking holiday, I’m happy to ramble anywhere, if I see a sign that points out an interesting-looking path, I’ll deviate and take it. If there’s somewhere unexpected that’s nearby and looks like it may be worth sniffing out, I’ll have a sniff. If there’s a pub and I’m thirsty, I’ll pop in and have a pint.

When you’ve got a heavy rucksack and you’re on a mission, it’s a different sort of walking. You rarely deviate from the chosen path, you take a wrong turn and you feel your soul shrivelling slightly because you’ve got to back track and you know you’ve only got so many miles in you and your feet are hurting. If the grass is long and it’s been raining, your legs and boots are going to get wet, which isn’t a problem for a while, but is for consecutive days.

You see a delightful looking pub or cafe and you walk on by even though you might be thirsty or peckish; you’ve got your bottle of water and your emergency biscuits, so you don’t need to stop, and besides the beer would make you feel drowsy. And it would eat unnecessarily into your limited budget.

I love walking, hiking, striding out into nature. If I didn’t have to worry about money, I could quite happily spend my life on the road.

What I didn’t anticipate on this adventure was the stress that would be caused by worrying about where to stop for the night. I don’t mind pitching my tiny tent up. I’m happy sleeping anywhere, me, but I hate being cold and I hate even more waking up in a tiny tent and it be raining. So when the weather looks like it might get a bit moist, I always make sure I’m not in a tent. It’s wonderful and magical when people invite you to stay over, and for the last couple of weeks I’ve been royally spoiled.

Trouble is, I’ve had an awful lot of rainy nights. But it’s not a problem when the Stealth Campervan joins the adventure. There is always a warm dry bed, food to cook and drink to be drunk, no matter where you are. So the next nine days are sorted, as The Lovely John is here on holiday with me.

And I want to treat the next nine days like a holiday. I’ve got enough unblogged blogging to last for quite a while, and I’ve had two months of pretty much non-stop adventure.

So – holidays, we’re heading to Glasgow to visit Grace and I’ve consulted my google maps oracle, and it says ‘go to Falls of Clyde, New Lanark’, it’s on the way, and it’s very lovely.

So we did, and it was.

Falls of Clyde

Next stop Glasgow, and Grace’s.

I’ve known Grace since she was a gangly teenager; she’s the daughter of my friend Janet, who I play with in the band Shiznitz, also the same Janet who loaned me her brother and his wife in Devon earlier in this adventure.

Grace is now all grown up – she’s done her degree, she’s got a proper job and she’s living in a flat in Glasgow with Ewan. I’ve been threatening to visit Grace for a year or so, because I’ve still to climb Ben Nevis, and I can’t climb Ben Nevis without first popping in to see Grace.

Ewan got home an hour or so after we arrived – he’s Scottish and it was Sunday, so he’d been out with his mates climbing Munros, like it was the most natural thing in the world. That’s what you do on a Sunday, when you’re young, fit, and Scottish.

Grown-up Grace cooked us a grown up meal, we went out for a drink and had a whiskey nightcap. We might have looked like we were their mam and dad, but we didn’t care, we were out with friends and it was lovely.

Me, Ewan, Grown-up Grace and The Lovely John

I even got a tune or two from Grace and Ewan. Ewan, being Scottish, not only climbs Munros for fun, he’s also an excellent piper. I bet he’s got a kilt somewhere as well. They all have, these Scotsmen. So I’m told.

Ewan Convery:

‘These are Scottish small pipes in the key of D – there’s also border pipes but they sound more like traditional bagpipes. There’s also highland pipes, but everyone knows them, and they’re too loud to play in the flat.

‘I’ve shut the drones off, so you’re just hearing the chanter.

‘I’ll play a tune called ‘John Keith Lang’, it’s a reel from Caithness, originally a fiddle tune, because most tunes up there are fiddle tunes, originally.’

‘Cheery Groove – I got this tune from the a concept album ‘The Railway’ written by Hamlisch Napier. It’s a slip jig – named after someone’s house. Musicians around Strathspey were commissioned to write songs around the steam railway line.

Quite a lot of people play this tune in sessions in Glasgow. Hamlisch Napier writes a lot of good tunes that you can pick up easily.

Grace Worrell:

I’ll play you ‘Seanamhac Tube Station’ written by John Carly. It’s a popular one in sessions up here. It’s in Gm.

https://youtu.be/5rtEnferQA0

Next morning, Grown-up Grace and Ewan were up early for work, so we headed into Glasgow to be sightseers for the morning, and with a recommendation from Grown-up Grace to go and see the Devil’s Pulpit (not in any of the books, not really signposted but well worth a visit), we headed off.

Found this little gem in Glasgow’s Kelvingrove museum. If only I’d had my little travel fiddle with me we could have played spot the difference…

I look round the whole museum and this is the only thing i take a photo of. Nerd or what?

…and here’s the Devil’s Pulpit – it’s a deep and narrow canyon that’s you can climb into via a set of well hidden Victorian steps. We found them eventually, and got to see the Devil’s Pulpit, which is, I believe a stone in the middle of the canyon. Thankyou, Grown-up Grace. For the food and the bed, and the tunes and the tourist tips.

Arty shot. Where’s Naked Actionman when you need him?

That mound of rock is, I believe the Devil’s Pulpit. But I could be wrong.

Tomorrow there’ll be tales of not climbing Ben Nevis, not hiking anywhere, Loch Lomond, fabulous wild camping, and how we found Nessie at Loch Ness, and what a bitter disappointment that was…

Gretna Green and Gussets

The magical power that is Google Maps had hinted that there might be a good stealth camping place just outside of Gretna, on the banks of the River Esk. That’s where we headed in The Stealth Campervan, because The Lovely John had driven all the way up from Scunthorpe, and it was getting late.

Turned out to be a perfect little spot. Right on the Esk estuary, miles away from anywhere, only the occasional dogwalker and we even had time for a stroll along the banks before settling down for the night.

We always position the van so that we get a view from the back doors. Saturday morning, early, this was the view:

Early morning River Esk. Yes, it’s cows.

I thought the river was deep, and you know those mornings when you wake up and can’t quite believe what you are seeing – well, this was one of those mornings.

Cattle – having an early morning paddle in the middle of the River Esk, heading out to sea.

They took a slow leisurely walk for a mile or so, then circled back, tiny dots on the other side of the bank (the side that is England, not the side that is Scotland, which we were on).

Yes, we were in Scotland. Gretna, to be precise, and there’s only one thing to do when it’s Saturday morning in Gretna Green…

…Laugh at the tacky tourism. Lordy Lordy, what a place Gretna Green is. Busloads of Chinese tourists (who knew it was such a popular tourist destination with the Chinese?), and The Original Smithies, and The Original Anvils – lots of them. Being a true professional, I let Naked Actionman get in on the scene:

Just hanging round, waiting for love. Trying too hard perhaps?

Not one person batted an eyelid at me laying on the floor getting this shot. Love, as they say, is blind. And batshit crazy.

The Lovely John and I were approached by a very nice Chinese lady who had an official Gretna Green lanyard. She was taking photographs of couples for ‘National Kissing Day‘ or something like that, and would we mind being photographed having a kiss at one of the Gretna Green photo places. My ‘just say yes’ philosophy kicked in and we said yes, and duly stood under the horseshoe love arch and puckered up, as the very nice Chinese lady took several shots of us. She even crouched on the round to get a good angle of us and the horseshoe love arch.

Here’s a salutary lesson for any photographers wearing short skirts who are crouching down getting arty angles with their camera: you, photographer, can get everything in, the couple, the kiss, the horseshoe love arch, but we can see right up your skirt. You could kneel, you could stand further back you could just go for a close up with your viewfinder, but when you crouch, legs wide part, and you’re wearing stripey knickers, we are going to notice your gusset. Notice? Madam, you were all but winking at us.

It may have been a deliberate ploy to get people to grin, and I did want to mention it to her, but she was off looking for another couple before I could have my quiet word.

‘Thank you so much’, she said, as she left us.

‘No, thank YOU’, said The Lovely John.

I couldn’t help it, I had my tourist head on, and we had the Stealth Campervan at our disposal, so we headed up the A75 to Dumfries and an afternoon of unabashed Rabbielove. I love Robbie Burns, and Dumfries is to Burns what Liverpool is to the Beatles. Like you can’t move for references to Burns. Like his face is on everything. Like you can’t move for tea towels and tam o shanters and tartan.

Dumfries is a gorgeous town, we did the Robert Burns walk round, and yes, I love The Rabster, but after a couple of hours, I’d had enough Aye fond kisses and Best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men to last til next January 25th.

Three of my favourite men all trying to look cool

The Lovely John wanted to throw Actionman in the River Nith, but luckily I saw this sign.

We called into a pop up shop – I can’t remember what drew us in, but the shop was Pensioners for Independance. Their tactic seemed to be: draw them in and ask them if they think Scotland should be an independent country. And when I say ‘ask’, read as ‘demand to know’.

Me, I just said ‘yes’ straight away, don’t know whether it was fear, conviction, or witnessing the withering looks and scathing remarks that followed a woman who said ‘absolutely not’. The Lovely John, never one to shy away from words, answered, ‘I don’t care, I’m happy right now.’

This seemed to melt the stoic, granite hearts of the two pensioners/potential inquisitioners and they ended up sending us away with armfuls of buns, fudge, a cd and a top tip on where to head to stay for the night.

I’l give you the top tip, if you’re ever in Scotland and want a night of wild camping, after a Rabbie Burns overload. Go up the A76, turn off for Wanlock Head, and it’s magnificent. Mountain pass, with a small river running through, and you can camp there. Lots of people do. It’s like party valley.

However, we drove on, waiting for the next place, and the next one until we came out the other side of the pass, and realised that we’d missed our chance. Note to self: if there’s a perfect looking place, stop, don’t wait for the next one, cos sooner or later you’ll run out.

So we challenged ourselves to find a lovely place near water, and to be honest we were sailing a bit close to the wind, thought we’d end up in a lay-by, but this is Scotland, if you miss the perfect place to stop, carry on, cos the next perfect place is near. We drove on to a place called Douglas, cos there was a lake showing on google maps and when we saw a sign for ‘Dangerous Castle’, it sealed the deal. It wasn’t a wild mountain pass, it was a beautiful peaceful land with a lake and a Dangerous Castle. Perfect.

Tomorrow, I’ll tell you about how Grace is all grown up now, and the Devil’s pulpit, and I can’t remember which road we took, the high or the low, but we got to Loch Lomond…

And you may have noticed I’m not doing much walking at the moment. Therein lies a tale to be told….